A Brooklyn Sunset gives way to an LI rebirth

It’s been 50 years since I relocated from Sunset Park in Brooklyn to Long Island, a move I found to be not only a change in geography but in culture, too. Maps show Brooklyn on the western end of this island we call home. Don’t tell anyone from Brooklyn or Queens that they’re part of Long Island — they’re two different worlds.

My family joined a wave of new residents arriving from the city to settle in suburbia. Like us, many newly arrived residents on Long Island were Italian Americans. It was easy to find foods we loved, including my favorite, pignoli cookies! And, of course, there were plenty of pizzerias.

Single-family homes were the norm instead of Brooklyn’s duplexes and apartment buildings. No small mom-and-pop stores anymore, but big shopping malls. Instead of walking everywhere, we drove everywhere.

My father sacrificed to move us to Islip Terrace. He borrowed from relatives for the house down payment, and his 20-minute subway ride into Manhattan became a two-hour Long Island Rail Road trip — one way!

But he never regretted the move to just before the end of the Southern State Parkway. Soon, other relatives — at least six other families — followed us and settled nearby.

After recently visiting Brooklyn, I drove to Sunset Park to see my birthplace. The neighborhood’s namesake park was across the street from our grandparents’ home. Like our mother before us, my two younger sisters and I swam in the pool in the summer and went sleigh riding in the winter before moving in 1974.

On my way, I passed the storefront of Grandpa Carl’s former tax business on Fifth Avenue. Next to it was a hardware store where I played with the owner’s German shepherd. Today, a Latin delicatessen occupies that storefront.

I found a renaissance underway — the park, my grade school and building next to my grandparents’ home were being renovated. The area had an influx of mostly minorities before we moved, and I was glad to see the city investing in the neighborhood’s continued vitality.

Seeing St. Agatha’s Church reminded me of “release time” on Wednesdays, when we Catholic kids left public school early, at 2 p.m., to receive religious instruction. The stern nuns employed a mix of verbal invective and the threat of physical assault to teach unruly youngsters about loving Jesus Christ. Those were truly different times.

Grandpa Carl often took me with him on car rides to Coney Island and to visit family in Flatbush, Sheepshead Bay and Bensonhurst. The Belt Parkway entrance he favored has two “S” curves before merging onto the highway. Grandpa drove his powder-blue 1967 Ford Galaxie 500 through those curves like Mario Andretti while I grinned ear to ear. That’s probably where my love of fast cars originated.

Spending time with him was special — he was soft-spoken, kind and shared his musical interests and life lessons with me. I admired his gregarious manner with others. On these trips, as a bonus, we’d usually stop for Nathan’s hot dogs.

My wife, Donna, and I were married in 2001, and each of us moved 15 minutes from our Suffolk County homes and met midway in Patchogue, which had a robust Italian American population. After returning from Brooklyn, I showed Donna photos I’d taken and regaled her with memories she’d never heard.

I was fortunate to have an opportunity to revisit my youth on the western end of our island.

Reader Frank Pomata lives in Patchogue.